and think of a splendid line of poetry (because the things that you think of like that always seem the best) I can get right out of bed and write it right down in my Jimmy-book. I couldn’t do that at home and then by morning I’d likely forget it. I thought of such a nice line last night. “Lilies lifted pearly chaluses (a chalus is a kind of cup only more poetical) where bees were drowned in sweetness” and I felt happy because I was sure they were two better lines than any I had composed yet.
“I am allowed to go into the kitchen and help Caroline cook. Caroline is a good cook but sometimes she makes a mistake and this vexes Aunt Nancy because she likes nice things to eat. The other day Caroline made the barley soup far too thick and when Aunt Nancy looked at her plate she said “Lord, is this a dinner or a poltis?” Caroline said “It is good enough for a Priest and what is good enough for a Priest is good enough for a Murray,” and Aunt Nancy said “Woman, the Priests eat of the crumbs that fall from the Murrays’ tables,” and Caroline was so mad she cried. And Aunt Nancy said to me “Emily, never marry a Priest”—just like Old Kelly, when I have no notion of marrying one of them. I don’t like any of them I’ve seen very much but they seem to me a good deal like other people. Jim is the best of them but impident.
“I like the Wyther Grange breakfasts better than the New Moon breakfasts. We have toast and bacon and marmalade—nicer than porridge.
“Sunday is more amusing here than at New Moon but not so holy. Nice for a change. Aunt Nancy can’t go to church or knit lace so she and Caroline play cards all day but she says I must never do it—that she is just a bad example. I love to look at Aunt Nancy’s big parlor Bible because there are so many interesting things in it—pieces of dresses and hair and poetry and old tintipes and
